?, no. 5

there is a man, sitting on my kitchen floor, tucked into a
corner, tossing flour up on the air, making words that float
and make a chatter that i can not understand, and his face

is hidden by this ghostey clamor, so i can not judge his eyes,
or have his lips been kissing mother, has he brought some
solace to her days, for he must know she's buried deep in

secrets, locks her windows with the failing of her charms, she
has a craft that comes from rare and special creams, she
has an art that speaks to wayward husbands, suitors with

unseemly dreams, or does he make some pact, here in my
kitchen, will he take my coffee for his own, and have his
supper at my table, sing some ditties to blush my mother's

cheek, there is a man, sitting on my kitchen floor, or am i

simply lost
?

sammy

sammy's gone a-roaming, making mutters down my garden
way, causing with my tulips, sitting with the glimmer flies,
i think he's lost his song, has my little sammy, left behind the

bedroom door, where he never knew the day, never grasped
the fullness of it, had his quiet suppers over grand and buttery
rums, where his mirrors begged some comfort, in a voice he

poorly understood, and he gave his kisses to the strangers
at his door, gifting them with all his passions, gifting them
with hours, barefoot cross the floors, now sammy's gone

a-roaming, chasing down some window that might open to
his ways, and find a room where he can sleep uncluttered,
in a bed entire to him alone, and he can listen to the quiet

and never again be found

?, #4

these are my strangely times, full-up with twist, hard in
a darkness all your own, and i'm bound by hours that have
no flow, or have i lost the dawn, loving all too well the night

when i can make my secrets, jolly with ole granny's
whiskey, and there is a window, where i can sit, where
i can magick all my famous potions, maybe throw them

at the moon, or will i lose my breathing, for you have
stolen all the airs, so i can not say your name, and can not
keep you close, you are my failing, and at the last, i may be

undone, cast into a tide that will not turn, these are my
strangely times, here at the end, you thought me champion,
upon another day, before you knew my secrets, or am i

simply unremembered
?

untitled, .x-

i found your daddy's whiskey, hid and cooled below the stairs,
and i'll make your supper, cause the night's a-come,
and i'm all passioned up and twisted by your kisses

?, #3

and who will hold me, when all my days are pawned away
careless lived, careless given with a rush of whim, when
my hours have been jealoused up, and leave me used and hungered

who will make me whispers, sliding through my loopy days
may be i'm hoarse with all my mutters, sitting through these
nights with paper cups of scotch and coca-cola, may be i'm

dancing in my old and twisty steps, sitting by my window,
singing like a romeo beside your bed, and who will remember
when i've forgotten why you love me, and you've forgotten

how to stay
?

?, #2

and you've put me in a strangely place, a place of twist
and tortured angle, a prison unto myself, where i am lone,
where my voice is swallowed, whole entire, and no sound

of comfort gives me whisper, and you've put me in a
darksome cloud, full of bindings, where i am roped as
any wild and maddened thing, and you say that this is

love
?

?

she leans across my table, my little sidewalk sally, making
oh's and singing ah's, tapping strangely rhythms, and i cannot
see her eyes, clouded by her wild, hiding in a silly place

and she makes her questions, drawing lines all full up
in magicks, and i can not breathe her rawsome mystery
why am i captured here, all bound and simpled as a boy

?

a son

he buried secrets by the garden path, placing
drops of tears in a gentle sweep, shimmering
his humiliation into bleached soil, the very perfect

son

your secret

and in the dark, to bind him enwrap him
keep him in the darkness, secret in your
garden, a voluptuous flower entire to you

broken somewhere

he walked and skipped and stumbled, broken
somewhere, ajumble somewhere, wondering
why the poppies came up orange

why the day came up short, regretting
another bed, another tangled blanket
hurling memories in the dark

but he was a careful man, collecting
pieces of a tidy and meticulous fall
from room to room to room

shining window glass, smoothing rumpled
things that slow the hours, slow the
fingers across the table, tracing in the dust

he'd forgotten, where he'd been, where
he'd told his father sometime in the night
that all broke things found heaven

there'd be place enough, some uncluttered
corner where he could rest, close
his eyes until he knew his way again

he'd gentled down expectations, loaned
desires as he was pummeled through the
mornings, forgetting how to keep himself whole

just another page, on another shelf
sheltered from the sun, marked with
fades, marked with serial cancellations

one of my old 'tales of the lad' series. done in the old southern tradition, meant to be read in the evening.

He sat beneath the willow bush, gnawin on the soft things sproutin in all manner of greenly composition. Quick clever fingers findin the crawlies 'n the young'uns. Snatch, shake, shake then the tastin of the glory of the livin. Waitin, he was, for the callin.

'N the callin came, yes, lawdy, yes. It came all strong. It came all fierce. It came when ole ma sun was quittin her evil ways. When the evenin winds wrought up their darkliness. 'N he knew the answers, all. Knew the prayerful things that set the ways to glory. For he was bound, he was, to know that song.

He was but a shadow, shape-shiftin, dancin his movin dance. Feet spryin over leaves in his witch-fell way. Twistin 'n spinnin like the hungry smoke. Spittin torment 'n sayin pain. Breathin up some madness for winter sleepers. Til a chuckle 'n a chortle caught 'im up. Broke the spellin that wrought the call.

For t'were his granny bright, his granny all load up with her granny ways. With her baskets strong, 'n filled, they were, with berries sharply sweet. With butter breads 'n honey just aready for the soppin.

But there's come a wrongness into the world. Casted on the meadow, on the playin brook. Growin where the laddy sleeps. Givin strongness to the sly, 'n a hunger too.

A hard 'n bitter wind came a'dryin out the soft. Turnin dust 'n turmoil in the fields, desolation to the goodly places. Seepin poison in'ta berry bright, 'n in'ta laddy ways.

Now granny hears the bees no more, nor tastes the spring's own milk. Nor breaks the spellin of the call. And none can say where sits the laddy, agnawin.

untitled #x

and if i sit all loopy, may be sillied, in my banyan tree, joyfulled up
with scotch and fizzle, singing bawdies from sweet granny's music box,
and if i run with jocko, making clamors, waking all the neighbor lads

will i still lose you
?

i'm bringing an oldie to the light, for re-pondering. also to highlite my changing style.

once, upon a time

there lived within his garden, once, upon a time
a man of quiet, singular and unsubstantialed
in communion with the aphids and the otters

growing for their mystery all manner, form
of buttery flies, cantakerous and shallow
creatures that ate his father's shallow breathing

respecting neither boundary nor edging placed
for keeping back the wilder ness, the phantasmic
intrusions bent on weeding round his roses

he grew within his gray and amber eyes
a rioting of spores, within his charnel lips
rapacious germinations unmarked or catalogued

and with the dawn he placed his stones, correctly
compositioned, accurately sized by the
predeterminations of the lunar tides

consulted, with the mid day sun, old prophecies
bought dearly from the gypsy moths, paid
with peonies cut in their full blooming

but with the tiring of the sun, comes into
its shadow, into these failing perishments
into the apprehensive gardener, all

the pests of places not his own, of
unfamiliar odor unfamiliar taste, of
poisonous and unnatural proclivity

for there lived within his garden, once,
upon a time, a man of virtuous intention
who grew within his heart a blight

lost, riff #6

jason kisses tango sweet, and makes a twisty step at 4am, makes
a whispered-up confession from some tuesday dally, then does his
little aria from romeo, drinks his pinot dry, waiting for the summered

morning, and i lost him at the dawn, could not remember his salty
lips, forgot his silly gossips, and sat awonder at a face all strangered up
with oddness, speaking with a magicked rhyme that left me in a

quieted confusion, and why is there coffee strong and bourboned,
chattering by my bed, why do i smell my daddy's biscuits while he
sings sweet granny's song, and i lost him when i heard the jolly

neighbor lad, sitting with my jasmine, waiting for my window to
call his silly grin, and i lost him when his green eyes changed to
blue, sleeping down my sunday sassies, but where is that neighbor

lad

winter and Bourbon

coffee turns to tea when
winter hits the kitchen window
turns to bourbon softly

when rain gets hardy full-up
with ragged breathing, sad
heroes line the salty walks

he knows the road went somewhere
yesterday, but never went the route
he could remember choosing

it slips away, he falls behind his
crinkly photos, unframed cryptic
stares that promised goodwill trophies

unremarkable sadness, second-hand
he leaves at his table, piled on
plates of take-out taken in

smudged fingered things are scattered
between his footsteps, between his
broken sweater and veiny feet

but he had his notes, written with
bold block letters, written with
exactitude, leaving bared no doubt

and so the day began, while mushrooms
grew beneath the roses, caterpillars ate
the aphids, ate the cautionary tales

he'd made to tell his children, to
shape the danger that kept him
sitting by the laundry door

There Was

He was a'sorrowed down, n twisted down neath the witches hazel. All broke. All pounded by the grievins that left him lyin fallow. 'N his blood would'na nourish, nor his bones give succor.

He were a small lad, when he had his laddy ways. 'N he gave a leap 'n a chuckle to the mortal tired. Sittin on his granny's lap, smellin up the ancient songs. Chasin down the milk all warm 'n sweet. 'N a climbin fool, he was. Bringin down the apple fruits to lay beside his ma a'sleepin. But that was when he had his laddy ways.

That was when he were the world's pure laughin. Afore all wonder passed with melancholy. Afore the crumblin moon fell slow into the sea. He were the first joy and the last.

He was a'broke, 'neath the witches hazel. A'torn 'n casted there. Left unweeped. And there was a prayerful preacher, wanderin with his hands abloody. Covetous and reekin wrong with sin. A jealoused man, hungry with his god.

Now gone, they are, the skippin 'n the mischievin. The trickster ways, the laddy ways. The first joy and the last.

the foot

his foot slid down, a sweet caress, a dalliers
small enticing ploy, and broke the folds and twists
that held him smiling to my bed

slid down until his toes touched the startled
stone, saying nothing to me, whispering nothing
in a gris-gris patter, and i can not breathe

slid down until i heard the gasps and hoots
of an audience, little sniggards from
the trade, the shops, the jolly-come-latelies

straining forward in velvet comfort, aroused
by their scent of titillation, aroused that i
would succumb, their private, their own,

their son

next

morning mirrors see his fame and glamor,
molded down a sunset alley, woven by the
lads from tulsa, then honed by crafty dressers

wise, and knowing to his ways, maestros of the
shadow, divas ripe and fondling, with hoots of joy,
his houselights, purveyors bound to show his voluptuous

mascara, his archly painted and flowery lips, his
lashes, found neglected in a backstage box,
slice into yester evening's rouge, wrongly but sublimely

colored, arouse some arrogant monsieur lying
waiting, leeching his a.miller from the balcony
reeling him into wings that might betray him

and so he piccolos for cues, anxious for a drum roll
that would move his feet from shadows, move
his narrow instep into a choreography badly

rhythmed, a harpo young and dangerous, a
boulevarded bette, understudied for a closing
arthouse, and morning becomes another cattle call,

next

sitting

i often sit, in these oddment years, among the crocus,
listening to my lilacs, waiting for the peonies to raise
their rowdy hoots and raunchy sillies, sly and randy fellas

and i moderate the querulous daffodil, intemperate
neighbors all, forever frenzied with their pollen-heavy
dramas, so cantakerous in their mise-en-scene

and i bow reproached before my sibilant pansies
little humblers of the mongrel rhododendra,
but with the tiring of the day, its awkward and

poorly staged repair, i long for plaintive songs of
calla moths, malicious monologues from velvet
millipedes, sly and pornographic rhumbas by the

luna flies, and how i aria with exultant tse-tses
leap dangerously across my iris-addled fens
until there rises in the glistened banyans

mourning-calls, hesitant asyncopated cantatas
flighty thistle g-minors, swanning through the
berry bogs, where court all manner of fruity aphid,

and spawn with some victorian fervor my moony and
corpulant cater-wings, but only til they rouse the pandering
mimosas, feckless whisperers of actionable delight

and i often sit, when lamentation bitters all the dark
caress my muted lips, with my ungenerous lover,
simply unremembered, brushed like chalk across the sand

from a gray april afternoon, after running from the fog. ah, provincetown.

toes bare

when did i lie, yesterday night, pushing
my toes bare on that gravelly wall
zagged with a calligraphy of darkly webs

i was found out, maybe unclothed, maybe
dancing in my ill-rhythmed samba, maybe
eyes closed beneath the stairs, badly hidden

waiting, but i am ever awkward in my
waiting, an erratic fumbler of buttons,
tasting of tongue marks, poorly timed bruises

where did i grow graceless, little flutters of
puccini-clefs, or was i even unawakened,
a ragged quick-be-done, left in failing twilight

but where did i lie, impatiently used,
randomly and quixotically trifled, tat-tat-tattered
a bothersome lisp for a schoolyard bully

and where goes the sun, little humbler, little
famous braggart, when your hungry face
has found its full, its satiated place

or i am forgot, loose fondled jollies
an ageing siren, lost in his famous song
toe prints on a zagged gravelly wall

a cross-legged man

i saw a man, cross-legged, sitting
by my garden gate, and wondered
why he'd thrown his shoes

why they lay all tumbled near
my radishes, near my radicchio
strange weeds in a garden proper

why i'd let them root, give
disharmony, let them try
their unsubtle nature on my figs

then, curiously, he tugged, twisted
fell up, off, socks cross-woven
baring toes, striking me with disbelief

there, and there, they lay, giving
discredit to my oregano, disfavor to
my cumquats, distraction to my peonies

would I water them with my night
time seedings, guarantee their organic
nature to my tse-tses and day lilies

i had no extra breathing for this
cross-legged man, this cross-pollination
into my perfect fecund flowered heart

lost in bologna

he thought he was dancing, lost in Bologna,
tap tip tapping while he swayed so clumsily
in the piazza, his white and powdery hands

moved in soft caresses, lazy moths of veins
fluttering and floating, and the clever streets
held laughing to his uncared shoes, brown

and starved for his affection, toe heel tap slide
point turn repeat, around the birds gaggled
in dismay the intruder brought his show,

and our debonair found a silly pirouette to please
the lads who followed every step and sang a
jolly little air, filled with f.astaire's fine tenor

and he thought he was dancing, in a lover's grip
round and round in a lover's spinning tango,
and he heard the crowd's applause,

lost in old bologna,

lost, riff #5

billy-ray tells tawdry tales to my neighbor lads, those deft and dillied
gawkers, out foolishing in my yard, and takes the pennies from my
bedroom floor, slips my nickels into his shoes, finding luck where
he can find it

but he saves his silly kisses for the dawn, and doesn't hear my
whispry tales, steals his place up in my window, where he can
listen to the pixie songs, maybe sell some charms to the catholic boys,
he is a crafy lad

and loose with favors, or did i lose my billy-ray, south of cincinnati,
chasing hop-toads through the grass, or did his loopy smiling leave
me sorrow-full, driving those old backroads, dusting round his daddy's
pawpaw trees, or did we

take our fancy down to bourbon street, make a monday dawdle
for the tourists, and they might have chased us with their rum and
coca-cola, chased us to the levee where the oak trees hide the light,
and where is he laughing now

my sweet ole billy-ray

oof. tuesday, the poet's bane.

at some variance to reality
sand rising between your toes
you're not bound to your father

'He leaned his elbow on my table, cigarette in the air,
sulky little beast. A frivolity with a puce scarf.
Small ears tight against his head; thick hair swept high.
All pout and endless upkeep.'

i fell asleep beneath my garden walk, where you take your night
time rambles, tasting moon flies, swirling jager and meistery shadows,
i'm nestled all volupted by the softness of your feet, what sweet

delire